Chapter XI: Act II (1)

_Middle of night._ D’EGLANTIERS _alone with the portmanteau under his arm and a candlestick in his hand_.

_D’Eglantiers._ I see they’ve brought me the portmanteau. Let’s seize the golden moment, while old Taelinck lies snoring like an ox, to inspect the contents a bit. [_Breaks the lock, and rummages through the portmanteau, taking out a necktie or some similar article, which he puts on._] What do I see? This seems to be a handsome capture! And I’ll be hanged if these are not Government bonds! _Ma foi!_ Now I’m a rich man, and can let the service slide with an easy mind! I shall lose nothing by resigning—no one ever got his pay out of a Provisional Government! However, we must keep a sharp look-out, and not let any of my comrades find out what has been in here! All honest fellows, no doubt, but suffering from the same complaint as myself! Where shall I hide the packets? The portmanteau won’t lock now; and, besides, several of them have seen it already.

[_Remains standings with the bonds in his hands. Enter_ MARIA.]

_Maria._ Up already, Captain?

_D’Eglantiers_ (_starts, and tries to hide the papers_). What,—what is it?

_Maria_ (_aside_). That’s the portmanteau in question. (_Aloud._) Nothing, Captain; I came to see if you wanted anything.

_D’Eglantiers._ Nothing! or,—wait! (_Looking at her attentively. Aside._) The girl seems trustworthy ... otherwise ... yes, I suppose that will be best!

_Maria_ (_aside_). What is he considering with himself?

_D’Eglantiers._ My good girl, I have here some of the army reports; could you tell me of a safe place, where no one comes poking and prying round, and where I can _cacher_ them in safety till my departure?

_Maria_ (_aside_). He’s running into the trap of his own accord. (_To D’Eglantiers, pointing to the cupboard._) Shall I hide them in here, under the house linen? But in that case you must give your men orders not to go about plundering my cupboards.

_D’Eglantiers._ I’ll promise you that, but just open it.

[_Maria opens the cupboard; D’Eglantiers hides the bonds inside
it._]

_Maria._ I think, Captain, that packet must contain something more than reports and general orders!

_D’Eglantiers._ No, it really does not, by——

_Maria._ Well, I’ll believe you; so you need not swear about it. But it looked to me rather like bonds. [_Locks the cupboard, and is about to put the key in her pocket, but D’Eglantiers prevents her._]

_D’Eglantiers._ Stop! I keep that key, do you hear?

_Maria._ Do you, sir? they’re bonds! Otherwise you would not be so much afraid of losing them!

_D’Eglantiers._ Yes, if that were true——

_Maria._ Then you wouldn’t be captain of a volunteer company, would you?

_D’Eglantiers._ No, certainly not!

_Maria._ No, if you were only rich, you’d already be a Member of Congress,—perhaps even of the Provisional Government....

_D’Eglantiers._ Yes; I do really think, if I were richer——

_Maria._ Not a doubt about it! A man of your talents and your eloquence would certainly have reached a high rank at Brussels, but for the want of means.

_D’Eglantiers._ You’re flattering me; but, after all, think of the numbers of conceited fools that have been elected to Congress! They do nothing but talk and mismanage matters.

_Maria._ I really think that you ought to be there, sir. It’s quite a mistake your not going! Brussels is the only place fit for you.

_D’Eglantiers._ I tell you once more, you’re a flatterer; but I promise you one thing,—as soon as I’ve hoisted the Brabant flag on the church tower of this village, I’ll go to Brussels and ask for my discharge.

_Maria_ (_aside_). A pleasant journey to you,—so long as the bonds remain here!

_Enter_ TAELINCK.

_Taelinck._ You’re up early, Captain?

_D’Eglantiers._ Yes, yes, good-morning! (_Looking sideways at the portmanteau._) May the devil——

_Taelinck._ It seems to me you’ve been looking out for yourself already. Was the portmanteau quite empty like that?

_D’Eglantiers_ (_somewhat embarrassed_). Well, there wasn’t much in it.

_Taelinck._ You’re not a man of your word, Captain! You promised that we should share and share alike, whatever was in it.

_D’Eglantiers._ When there is nothing, there’s nothing to share; do you hear?

_Taelinck._ You might at least have waited to open it till I was there.

_D’Eglantiers._ Lieutenant, you’re becoming insolent; you’re forgetting discipline!

_Taelinck._ I shall let the General know that you keep all the loot to yourself.

_D’Eglantiers._ There stands the girl,—ask; let her _témoigner_ whether there was anything in it but——

_Maria._ But eight linen shirts, which the Captain gave me to put away in the cupboard. Shall I get them out, Captain?

_D’Eglantiers._ Yes, yes,—here’s the key! (_Aside._) That’s a little jewel of a girl!

[_Maria opens the cupboard, and takes out a pile of shirts, which
she drops on the floor. While the two officers are busy picking
them up, she hides the bonds under her apron._]

_Maria._ There they are,—eight of them!

_Taelinck._ That’s five for me,—but was there nothing more?

_Maria._ Nothing. [_She locks the cupboard, and returns the key to D’Eglantiers._]

_D’Eglantiers_ (_aside to Maria_). If I ever get into the Government, I’ll see that you have a pension.

_Maria._ I should like to ask you something, sir. First, about the landlord,—my master, you know,—the man you took prisoner yesterday, and who is in that room; will you set him free again?

_D’Eglantiers._ H’m! h’m! a rebel like that? but, since you ask it ... well, go and fetch him!

_Maria._ And in the second place, will you let my sister and my uncle, who are sleeping here, go back to their own village undisturbed?

_D’Eglantiers._ Where do they live?

_Maria._ Why ... not very far off.

_D’Eglantiers._ Well, if they lived at the other end of nowhere, I should let them go, since it is you that ask it!

_Maria._ Very good; I’ll go at once and tell them.

[_Exit._

_D’Eglantiers_ (_aside_). That’s the right sort of girl! she’s saved me from all my anxiety.

_Taelinck_ (_aside_). I don’t feel anything like easy about that affair of the cupboard!

_Enter_ NICOLAAS.

_Nicolaas._ Captain, the maid tells me you have given orders for my release.

_D’Eglantiers._ Yes; because that girl asked me, I’ve let you go, but mind what you’re about next time. The council is going to assemble here, and you may vote with the rest, because I want liberty to flourish.

_Enter_ PLUCKX.

_Pluckx._ Captain! here’s the council; are you ready for them?

_D’Eglantiers._ Yes, yes, let them come; but,—I tell you what,—let ten or a dozen of our men come in too, so as to maintain full liberty during the discussions; do you hear?

_Pluckx._ Very good, Captain.

[_Pluckx goes out, and returns with the principal men of the
village, headed by Michiel, as Burgomaster, and some
Volunteers._]

_Nicolaas_ (_to Michiel_). What in the devil’s name are you doing here? Look alive, and get to the stables!

_Michiel._ Why, master, are you there? That’s lucky. I’ll have you for my man-of-all-work, master!

_Nicolaas._ Why, man, are you gone wrong in your head? or——

_Michiel._ Not at all! The Captain here has made me Burgomaster of the village;—so you see, sir, that things look very bad for you.

_D’Eglantiers._ Silence! The council is going to be opened, and every one is to sit down.

[_The “Notables,” with Michiel in their midst, sit down in a circle,
while D’Eglantiers takes his place at a table, with Taelinck by
his side._]

_D’Eglantiers._ The _séance_ must be public, as is the proper thing for all liberal governments.

_Nicolaas._ Of course—so that every one can hear the nonsense that is talked.

_D’Eglantiers._ Therefore, Pluckx, open the door; but don’t let every one in, or the room will be overcrowded, you understand?

_Nicolaas._ A very wise precaution!

[_The front door and shutters are opened. It is daylight._]

_D’Eglantiers._ Citizens! in the name of the Government, I offer you _la liberté_, _les lumières_, _et l’ordre légal_. Do you understand that?

_The Schoolmaster._ It seems to mean the same thing as freedom, enlightenment, and law and order.

_Nicolaas_ (_standing up_). Surely, sir, it is scarcely necessary to give us what we have possessed for a long time already!

_D’Eglantiers._ Silence! I bring you liberty in all things,—no more coercion,—no more monopoly! Education and trade are free. Is there a school here?

_The Schoolmaster._ Certainly, sir, the Society for National Education—

_D’Eglantiers._ Done away with! Abolished! The parents are free from henceforth, and, as a natural consequence, the children also. No more schools; at any rate, none of the National Education Society’s!

_Nicolaas._ That I am quite willing to believe.

_D’Eglantiers._ Silence! Is there any factory in this _commune_?

_Nicolaas._ There are six, in which hundreds of people earn their living.

_D’Eglantiers._ Monopoly must be abolished. Every one ought to be allowed freely to make what he likes. Therefore all the factories must be sacked.

_Nicolaas._ The factories sacked? Is that the freedom you are bringing us? (_Turning to the Notables._) And you are going to allow this? (_Confusion in the meeting._)

_D’Eglantiers._ Silence! _Volontaires!_ the first man that contradicts, you are to shoot through the head. Otherwise free discussion becomes an impossibility.

[_The Volunteers take aim._]

_Michiel_ (_quaking with terror_). Of course—the Cap—Captain is right. The—(_in confusion_)—the factories must take his word for it. What a kind amiable man the Captain is! Long live the Captain!

_D’Eglantiers._ All the ready money in the village must at once be placed in my hands, in order to clothe my valiant troops.

_Nicolaas._ They can take care of themselves in that respect (_Points at Pluckx._)

_D’Eglantiers._ All the wine and provisions in the place must be presented to my troops as a voluntary gift.

_Nicolaas._ Anything else?

_D’Eglantiers._ All swords, guns, knives, spades, axes, pickaxes, ploughshares—in short, all iron tools must be handed over to me.

_Nicolaas._ He’s not hard to please, _he_ isn’t.

_D’Eglantiers._ And the council is to deliberate whether it would not be well to send in an address declaring their submission to the Government.

_Michiel._ A very good idea.

_Nicolaas._ I should like to say a word.

_D’Eglantiers._ Speak up!

_Taelinck._ He can’t speak. He is only the ex-Burgomaster; he is not entitled to a share in the proceedings.

_D’Eglantiers._ Never mind—let him speak as one not entitled.

_Nicolaas._ If I may speak without danger, I should like to ask what _is_ the Government that we are to submit to? I have already heard some half-dozen sovereigns mentioned; and really I should not be surprised if you had offered the crown to a Chinese mandarin.

_D’Eglantiers._ Tut! tut! all you’ve got to do is to submit—it doesn’t matter to whom. That’s not your business.

_Nicolaas._ Then I vote against such an absurdity.

_The Schoolmaster and others._ So do I! so do I!

_D’Eglantiers._ I shall put you under arrest if you don’t vote as I tell you.

_Nicolaas._ Is that what you understand by liberty?

_D’Eglantiers._ You are at liberty to talk as much as you like, but you must vote as I wish.

_Nicolaas._ I thought you were more liberal than that, Captain!

_D’Eglantiers._ I can’t waste time arguing with you. [_Takes the proclamation out of his pocket._] Here’s my manifesto. Let the Burgomaster read it out loud.

_Michiel._ Silence! Let every one listen! (_Reads._) “Proclamation,—We, Captain D’Eglantiers——”

_D’Eglantiers._ That’s me, standing here.

_Michiel_ (_reads_). “And Lieutenant Taelinck——”

_Taelinck._ Here’s the man you’re reading about, _compère!_

_Michiel._ “To all that shall read these presents, salutation! salutation!” (_Bows._)

_D’Eglantiers and Taelinck._ Salutation!

_Michiel_ (_reads_). “Citizens! a Dutch army, ten thousand strong, is marching on this village!” What’s this?

_D’Eglantiers._ That’s not on the paper, you scoundrel!

[_General consternation._]

_Michiel._ It is there—read for yourself!

_D’Eglantiers._ Then it’s a forged document—_parbleu!_

_Pluckx_ (_examines the paper_). It’s signed by you and the Lieutenant, sir.

_All._ Go on! go on!

_Michiel_ (_reads_). “As I am not in a position, with the forces at my disposal, to withstand so powerful an enemy, I hope you will not take it ill of me if I beat a retreat——”

_All._ Well, now!

_Michiel_ (_reads_). “Within a quarter of an hour!”

_Nicolaas._ A pleasant journey to you!

_D’Eglantiers._ What sort of an infernal thing is this? [_Snatches the paper out of Michiel’s hand. Aside to Taelinck._] Yes, indeed, there’s my mark!

_Taelinck._ And mine, too!

_D’Eglantiers._ Then the girl has cheated us!

_Pluckx._ If ten thousand men are marching on us, the best thing we can do is to march off in the other direction.

_Nicolaas._ And we will go to meet them.

_Michiel._ Yes, we’ll escort them in in triumph!

[_All the Notables, and the majority of the Volunteers, leave the
house._]

_D’Eglantiers._ What the——! What are you doing! Stay here! It’s all a swindle!

_Enter_ MARIA, _with_ VAN WERVE _and_ CLARA, _disguised as_ _peasants_.

_Maria._ Captain, here are my sister and my uncle, who——

_D’Eglantiers._ Here! you child of Satan! I’ll sister and uncle you! What sort of a paper is this that you’ve written? Come, now!

_Maria_ (_aside_). The fat’s in the fire now, and no mistake!

_D’Eglantiers._ Answer me! what sort of a paper is it?

_Maria._ Why, sir, haven’t you read it?

_D’Eglantiers._ I’ve heard it read, and——

_Maria._ Did you let it go out of your own hands?

_D’Eglantiers._ Insolent, too? Who’s asking questions, you or I?

_Maria._ A word in confidence, Captain? [_Draws him aside._] Don’t you understand?—that was a trick of mine to——

_D’Eglantiers._ A trick?—a fine trick! I’ll——

_Maria._ Hush! hush! do! I knew that the Dutch troops were coming, and in order to let you know it privately I wrote it down on that paper. I hoped you would read it by yourself, and then act as circumstances might demand.

_D’Eglantiers._ Well—in that case! But it is strange, though——

_Enter_ PLUCKX.

_Pluckx._ Captain, it’s time for you to show yourself. Half of our men want to leave, and the villagers are beginning to arm!

_D’Eglantiers._ What the——[_Breaks off, and looks towards the cupboard._] I must get hold of my bonds first. Lieutenant Taelinck, go on. I’ll follow immediately.

_Taelinck_ (_also looking at the cupboard_). Aren’t you coming with us, Captain?

_D’Eglantiers._ Presently, presently.

[_Taelinck goes out slowly, followed by Pluckx. D’Eglantiers runs to
the cupboard, opens it, and searches in vain for the packet._]

_Maria_ (_aside_). What shall I do now? Wait!—I have it.

[_Hastens out and comes back with Taelinck._]

_Maria_ (_to Taelinck_). It is just as I told you—the Captain has been hiding gold and jewels in that cupboard.

_Taelinck_ (_comes forward, and taps D’Eglantiers on the shoulder_). Well, Captain, what have you got there, say?

_D’Eglantiers_ (_surprised_). Eh! what?

[_Turns round, and seeing Taelinck, hurriedly closes the cupboard._]

_Taelinck._ You’ve hidden our booty there,—that’s quite clear. Open that door again, and look sharp about it.

_D’Eglantiers._ What’s the good?—there’s no money in it.

_Taelinck._ I’ll report you!

_D’Eglantiers._ I won’t give you the chance! [_Draws his sword._]

_Taelinck_ (_defends himself_). You miserable thief.

[_They fight. Van Werve and Clara are about to take the opportunity
of escaping, when Pluckx enters with his men._]

_Pluckx._ What! fighting here? Why, the Hollanders are coming!

_D’Eglantiers._ What! Where? When?

[_Shouts of “Oranje boven!”[29] outside. Van Werve rushes at
Taelinck and disarms him._]

_Van Werve._ Yes!—“Oranje boven!”

_Pluckx._ Here they come! _Sauve qui peut!_

[_Tries to escape by the front door._]

_D’Eglantiers._ Where’s the back door?

_Maria_ (_calls after him_). Don’t forget your bonds, whatever you do!

[_As D’Eglantiers attempts to leave by the back door, Michiel
enters, accompanied by several Soldiers, and knocks him down
with a pitchfork, while Taelinck is being held by Van Werve.
Edeling, Nicolaas, Soldiers, and Armed Villagers enter by the
front door, and disarm Pluckx and the rest of the Belgians._]

_Michiel._ Halt! Captain! you were mistaken after all! “Oranje boven!”

_D’Eglantiers._ Traitor of a Burgomaster!

_Edeling._ My Clara!

_Michiel._ See there! I knew we should catch them.

_Nicolaas_ (_to the Dutch leader, pointing at Michiel_). Captain, you had better secure this rascal! it was he who brought the rebels here.

_Michiel_ (_as he is seized by the Dutch_). How! what?—why, I showed you the way myself!

_Maria._ The pitcher to the well—Michiel!

[_The insurgents and Michiel are led away._]

_Edeling_ (_seeing Maria_). Good-morning, my lass—didn’t I come back to see you, as I said I would? (_To the others._) This is the girl who helped me to escape.

_Van Werve._ She has served us all.

VAN LENNEP.

_PROVERBS._

He who lives with cripples learns to limp.

The best steersman stands ashore.

Self is the man.

He gives an egg to get a chicken.

They are not all princes who ride with the emperor.

He howls with the wolves when he is in the wood, and bleats with the sheep in the field.

A little too late, much too late.

Stand still a while, you lose a mile.

The nearer Rome the worse Christian.

Call no herring before he’s in the net.

He who has choice has anxiety.

Don’t put too many eggs under one hen.

If fools were silent they’d be wise.

No man dies of threats.

The fowl that cackles most does not lay most eggs.

No mad dog ever ran for seven years.

One can see by the stockings whose leg is broken.

You should hang your cloak towards the wind.

No man ever limped for another’s sore foot.

It’s ill stealing where the host is a thief.

’Tis ill eating cherries with lords.

When slovenly people turn over a new leaf they polish the bottoms of the saucepans.

What belongs to the ravens[30] will never drown.

All offices are greasy.[31]

What the sow does the little pigs must pay for.

With much pounding the stockfish becomes tender.

No man sees his own hump-back.

’Tis an ill water, said the horse, for he could not swim.

’Tis an ill morsel that chokes one.

Let them pump who are cold, I have my coat on.[32]

All that come of cats will go mewing.

Let the plover peck, I have the eggs in my hat.

Though the ape should wear a golden ring, yet he is an ugly thing.

He who has a fine cat should bring no furrier into his house.

Lands become sand, sands become land. (_Landen versanden, sanden verlanden._ An epitome of the physical history of Holland.)

The greater jurist the worse Christian.

When the gnats dance in January the farmer comes to beggary.

Beware of a fair Spaniard and a swarthy Englishman.

Better sit still with an owl than fly with a falcon.

The first man in the boat has the choice of oars.

It’s the third strand that holds the cable.

Man overboard—an eater the less.

A tired horse would rather see a dirty stable than a clean high-road.

A woman’s hair pulls worse than the main-topsail.

At Boulogne there are more traps than mice.

White and black[33] were the making of Venice.

A hundred Dutchmen, a hundred knives.
A hundred Frenchmen, no knives.
A hundred Scots, two hundred knives.[34]

In Italy—too many feasts, too many chiefs, too many storms.

The Spaniard seems wise, and is not.
The Frenchman seems a fool, and is not.
The Italian seems wise, and is so.
The Portuguese seems a fool, and is so.[35]

A husband’s mother is the devil on the floor.

A house full of daughters is a cellar full of sour beer.

’Tis easy piping to those who love dancing.

Smoke, bad air, and scolding wives, are what drive men out of the house.

_A DUTCH PODSNAP._

“A glass of wine, mamma?”

“No, thank you, papa.”

“You, Caroline?”

“No, thank you, papa.”

“Frederica?”

“No, thank you, papa.”

Ditto, ditto, for Marie, Antoinette, and Hortense.

“Hendriek doesn’t take any wine?”

“Oh! no, papa.”

“And my Lijsje?”

“Oh! it would be dreadful, papa!”

Mijnheer Van Arlen, having gone through this ceremony, half-filled his glass, filled it up with water, and then carefully corked the bottle, to be put away for to-morrow. In this way it would be made to last ten days, and as a rule it did so; for the above invitation to his wife and seven daughters was renewed every day, and every day regularly declined. However, there were some exceptions to this rule: in the first place, when papa was on a journey. Every year papa had to take a journey for the Minister; it was a mission of mysterious importance, whose destination no one was to know. It always came off quite unexpectedly, immediately after the receipt of his second quarter’s salary. On these occasions the bottle, if it still contained any wine, was emptied by the family, and papa’s own particular tumbler—a most precious one, of ruby glass, with a flower-pattern, and the initials H. M. engraved on it—put away in the china-cupboard for the space of ten days. For this unexpected, mysterious, and important journey always lasted exactly ten days, during which time the daughters enjoyed the mild joke of calling their mother “Madame Veuve,” and were solemnly requested by her not to do it, for, as she said, it was a sort of joke that always sent a cold shudder through her. She preferred being called “little bride,” which took place once a year, on her wedding-day, an occasion which formed the second of the exceptions referred to above. On this occasion papa always provided mamma with the surprise of a glass of port at dinner, and all the seven daughters had some too, though in their hearts they would have preferred not taking it, for they detested it—and it always gave one such a colour in the evening!

The third exception—which was only half a one—occurred when papa had a relation or a friend from out of town on a visit, when mamma would take a glass; and then the bottle had to be finished, for wine only turns flat if it is left standing.

To-day, however, was merely an ordinary day. Papa had received no instructions as to his journey, and the wedding anniversary was some time off; though the friend from out of town was expected, and might arrive any week. He was something more than a friend—he was a late brother-in-law; for Mevrouw Van Arlen—Hortense Muggenhout, as denoted by the initials on the tumbler—had had a younger sister, who had married Heer Van Noost Prigson, a most respectable man, as appears from his double-barrelled name, which was never forgotten, either by himself or the Van Arlen family. Mijnheer Van Noost Prigson had lost his wife not long after the birth of his only son.

Uncle Van Noost Prigson had written to-day he would come; but he was a man of business,—of much business,—and he wrote so quickly that three-fourths of each of his letters were illegible. Fortunately, papa was also a man of business, and in his responsible position was brought into contact with so many matters—cipher, among others—that he was able to read the writing of Uncle Van Noost Prigson, at least the greater part of it. This time, however, the most important part of uncle’s letter was in figures, and he always made his figures very indistinctly. He said he might possibly come on the 3rd (it might also have been the 8th), unless it were the 10th—or (for the figures might equally well have stood for that) the 21st—while at the end of the letter he added, with equal distinctness, that it was to be between the 14th and 16th, for which again one might have read the 24th and 26th. Equally uncertain was the duration of his visit; its purpose, indeed, was explained, and this papa thought fit to keep to himself. It must surely be a matter of importance, thought the eight ladies, for the thought that he—with his vast experience of all sorts of business—should have failed to decipher this part of the letter never entered their heads for a moment.

Papa filled a most important office,—it was in the year 1846,—and in consequence of one thing or another, perhaps in connection with the mysterious journeys, he had, one 6th of December, received a token that the State appreciated his services. Since that day, the said token had been inseparable from the black coat, without which no one ever saw Mijnheer Van Arlen. It was quite in harmony with the impressive wrinkle on his forehead, which looked as though Van Arlen had for years been staring upward in a bent position,—in harmony, too, with the compressed lips, which seemed in continual fear of letting a State secret escape; while his hair had become quite white, probably from the anxiety occasioned by the weighty matters which occupied his head. The daughters found in papa the type of a handsome man, and at the same time of a thoroughly respectable one; mamma adored him with the enthusiasm which every good housewife is bound to feel for her husband, and never spoke of him except as “Mijnheer Van Arlen.” Conversely, he always referred to his wife as “_Mevrouw mijne echtgenoote_;”[36] and he preferred to allude to his daughters in numerical order, unwilling to admit the outer world to so great a degree of familiarity as to speak to it of his daughters by their Christian names.

Either the bottle had stood too long on this particular day, or some other cause had spoilt Van Arlen’s taste for it; anyhow, he did not finish his glass, and, when dinner was over, fixed a penetrating gaze on the door, and remained silent.

“Are you not well, papa?” asked Caroline.

“Quite well, my child!”

“Difficult business?” asked Mevrouw, sympathetically.

“Oh! all business is difficult, mamma,” said Van Arlen, weightily, and stared into nothing more perseveringly than ever.

Mamma sighed, and the daughters looked sadly at papa. Could Uncle Van Noost Prigson’s letter be the cause of the trouble?

“Will you have any dessert, papa?”

The dessert was standing ready, as usual, on the small side-table. A box of flat biscuits, a butter-dish, a corner of cheese under a glass cover, and a little dish of fruit, or, if there was none to be had, of preserved ginger. But papa did not care for dessert, and never took any, except when the above-mentioned relation or intimate friend from the country was present; for “a dinner is not complete without dessert.”

“No, thank you, my dear? Will you?”

“Oh! you know I never do. Shall we say grace?”

Grace was said, reverent and short, as is befitting in a house where a good tone prevails, and papa folded up his napkin neatly, and laid it beside his plate; whereupon Leida fetched the matches, and gave papa a light, which he accepted with a gracious nod, just as he had done yesterday, and the day before, and all the year round, with the exceptions aforesaid. Then eighteen-year-old Leida gave her papa a light kiss on his forehead, just above the broad wrinkle.

“Why, papa! you must not be so gloomy; just let me kiss the trouble away,” said she.

“What tricks next?” asked papa, sportively; and mamma called her a monkey, and all the six sisters thought it such a good thing that Leida was in such spirits, and had such a knack of getting papa into a cheerful humour.

Van Arlen lit his cigar, and went slowly and thoughtfully to his own room, whither he was called by his weighty official cares, and where a mysterious locked portfolio lay ready for him. He turned the key in the lock, sat down in his easy-chair, and went to sleep. He was quite right to lock himself in,—a State secret might so easily have escaped him in his sleep,—nay more, the secret of his after-dinner nap, which was entirely unknown to his household and the outer world, might have leaked out. About half-past seven there was a modest knock at the door; the person knocking waited patiently till all the State secrets should be covered up; and when the door was opened, the table before Van Arlen was strewn with papers. The inkstand, however, remained on the mantelpiece.

But she who entered the room suspected no deception, and was not on the look-out for traces of it. Year after year it had been Mevrouw Van Arlen’s habit to bring her husband his “first cup” at this hour, and the ten minutes which he was accustomed to give her served for the discussion of domestic matters. Papa listened attentively to what mamma had spent on milk and on bread, on peas and beans and matches,—nothing is too small for a great man,—and then handed out the exact amount from the secret drawer of his writing-table.

“And then, papa, Caroline and Frederica and Marie ought to have new hats.”

“And the three others?”

“They can have the old hats of the three eldest done up with new trimmings.”

“And what becomes of _their_ old ones?”

“They can use them for every day.”

Van Arlen tried to form in his own mind a visible picture of the change; but his habit of considering affairs of State somewhat dimmed and confused his sight in matters of everyday life.

“I do not rightly understand you, my dear. It seems to me that the three eldest might just as well have the hats of the next three, as the next three have the hats of the elder ones passed on to them.”

“Caroline, Frederica, and Marie are the eldest.”

“Is that a reason, mamma? Let us take, as our fundamental principle, impartiality. Let us act without respect of persons—it is a wise rule, a guarantee for the stability both of a government and a household. Let us give no occasion for jealousy by measuring with two different measures.”

“But, papa——”

“Believe me, my dear, parents who show partiality are sowing the seeds of unfriendly feeling, discord, hatred. Let us be wise, and not bow to any antiquated principle of primogeniture. What human experience has found to be fatal in society, must not be introduced into our smaller circle by us, the individual units of society.”

“But in that case they might as well all keep their own hats, and trim them up afresh.”

“Let it be so.”

How mamma was to settle matters with her daughters was her business; the head of the family was concerned solely with the legislative, not with the executive department.

“And Leida must keep her old hat because she has been so untidy; but she will have to have a new ribbon on it.”

Van Arlen nodded assent.

They must have been great men who first preached impartiality, and abolished the right of primogeniture. Here, in this individual instance, was a saving of three new hats,—what economy would be effected by the application of the system to a whole State!

“And you yourself, mamma?”

“I have been thinking of keeping on the mourning for another year. My black dresses are all quite good still.”

“And we were so fond of poor Cornelia! When the mourning is worn out the dead are forgotten, people say. We must show that it is not the case with us.”

“Or that we have been careful of our clothes,” Van Arlen might have added; but though this inference did not enter his head, another did.

“So we shall not go out this year?”

“I’m sorry, for the girls’ sakes; but it really is a duty. But, all the same, we must not keep them quite shut up either.”

“No, of course not.”

Mijnheer and Mevrouw Van Arlen were silent for a little.

“We must not keep them shut up,” repeated the mother, thoughtfully. “Do you think it possible you might some time be transferred, Van Arlen?”

“Oh, Hortense! don’t ask such questions.”

“It is not out of curiosity, but in the interest of our family. You are in such favourable relations with people in high positions.”

“What do you think is the cause of this, mamma?”

“Well, your knowledge, your ability, your great——”

“Do you think that a man possessing such qualities—mind I don’t say I possess them—has much chance of being sent away to a distance?”

“No, but—it is hard.”

“It may be hard,—but when a man is indispensable—I don’t say that I am indispensable—he has to put up with it. The feeling that he is doing his duty conscientiously to the State, ought to have most weight with him,—and it certainly makes things easier.”

Van Arlen finished his tea, and handed the empty cup to his wife—the usual sign that the audience was over.

“Another cup?”

“Yes, please—but no sugar.”

This condition was as stereotyped as the dessert; papa only took one cup with sugar; the ladies did not care for sugar, except at evening parties, when they took it to prevent mistakes and confusion.

Van Arlen then went to work,—read, signed documents, made a note here, and drew his pen through a sentence there,—and became so absorbed in his work that he never heard Marie come in on tiptoe, to set down the humble domestic cup of tea on the table covered with State documents. At the stroke of half-past nine Van Arlen rose, and once more made his appearance in the family sitting-room, where an old-fashioned card-table had been set out. After working all day, he found that his mind needed some relaxation. His wife and two of the daughters,—who took turns in this, as in other things, were already seated; the cards were dealt, and he had only to begin. They were playing whist for recreation, and not for money—therefore no reckoning was necessary; but the marking was done with laudable accuracy, and every mistake was severely reproved—for the furthering of every one’s enjoyment; for enjoyment without seriousness does not deserve the name.

Papa never spoke a word except what was required by the game, and did not like any talking to go on in the room; so that the five daughters who were not playing, sat silent round the big table, each with her needlework, thinking about the hats they were not to have, the mourning that their mother was to go on wearing, the ball to which they were not invited, the opera they never went to, the new fashions other people were going to wear, the novel they were in the middle of, but which must not be read aloud now papa was in the room, the riches they missed, the enjoyment they did not know, the past that was so poor, and the future that did not promise to be richer.

There was a ring at the bell.

All the ladies looked up; even papa laid down the cards he was just about to deal.

“Brother Van Noost Prigson!” said Mevrouw, in a tone of some anxiety,—as well she might, for there was no meat in the larder—in fact, nothing in the house but a small angle of cheese, and a few ounces of ginger from the uneaten dessert.

Van Arlen said nothing: he was never precipitate, and in all circumstances of life preserved his presence of mind.

“What a quiet little ring!” said Frederica.

“Could it be a message from the Minister, papa?”

“Leen has not heard the bell—shall I ring?”

Mevrouw Van Arlen assented, and the sitting-room bell was heard—a quicker and more excited ring than the heavy, respectable front-door bell.

“The bell rang, Leen.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m here.”

“No—the front-door bell.”

“No, indeed it didn’t, ma’am.”

“We all heard it.”

“Impossible,” muttered the maid to herself, as she went to see; “or else it must be some one who pulled the bell and ran away—and you can’t be always on the look-out for that.”

All listened in strained expectation. The front door was opened, but no sound of voices came from it; it was closed again, and Leentje was heard shuffling off to the kitchen.

“She might come back and say who it was,” mamma assented.

Leentje was again sent for.

“Who rang the bell, Leentje?”

“Just as I thought, ma’am,—it was some boy that ran away.”

Mijnheer Van Arlen was inwardly very indignant that his family—among whom so good a tone prevailed—should make such an exhibition of themselves in the presence of a servant. Mamma blamed the girls’ curiosity, but could not unconditionally accept the theory of the boy,—Leentje had been too long at the front door for that. If it turned out that she had been speaking to a “fellow” there, she would have to leave next day. That sort of thing would not do in a respectable house. The girls likewise declined to believe in the boy—the bell had been rung too quietly. They wanted to go out and look whether anything had been pushed under the door. Then it struck Antoinette that the mysterious ring might be connected with burglary, and this opinion gave rise to some eager whispering, which caused papa to turn a frowning brow, not once, but twice, in the direction of the large table. In an unguarded moment Leida slipped out into the passage, to institute an investigation _in loco_, but neither on nor under the door-mat was there any trace of a paper. All conjectures remained fruitless.

If the little street-boy, with the newly mended kettle on his back, who, merrily whistling his favourite tune, had crossed the quiet street, and pulled the bell, to give his aunt’s sister-in-law a run from the kitchen for nothing,—if that small evil-doer had known what a change and excitement he had caused in a respectable family, insomuch that Van Arlen himself, who filled such an important post, had laid aside for a moment the business which occupied him, he would probably have repeated the experiment on the following evening—if only out of pity for the monotonous life of the seven ladies, to whom even the pulling of the bell was an event.

The night has passed;—the little, sputtering, flickering night-light, which burns in Van Arlen’s bedroom—for Van Arlen does not believe in having no light in the house, one never knows what may happen—has consumed all its oil and gone out. The insolent sun, which has no pity for faded carpets and curtains, has penetrated everywhere; and if one could walk through the Van Arlens’ house at this hour, when their high tone is still asleep, one would lose much of the reverence inspired by the important position, the refined manners, and the ceremonious intercourse with each other of its inhabitants.

But at this hour in the morning no one walks through Van Arlen’s house except the maid, who, by the terms of her engagement, is bound to “do” two rooms before breakfast. This involves rising before five, though she does not go to bed any earlier for that; she is also supposed to answer the door, go out once in four weeks, “if it suits,”—and have neither right nor claim to any extras beyond her wages, which are moderate, and her perquisites, which are _nil_.

To be weighed against all this is the great advantage of living with respectable people, and that is a great deal in these days, Mevrouw says. Besides this, Leentje is a “whole” orphan, and therefore ought to appreciate the privilege of finding a home with such a family—though it is true that Mevrouw Van Arlen will never engage a servant with any parent or relative living, to save trouble with their families.

But the Van Arlens are far too respectable to let us waste any more time over their servant,—more especially as by this time they are all assembled at breakfast, with the exception of the head of the house, for persons who do much brain-work need more rest than those who only tire their bodies—so Mijnheer says. Mevrouw is seated before the tea-tray—the daughters take cold water. Nothing is wholesomer than cold water. Moreover, butter—at least, much butter—is bad for the health. Bread in large quantities is also unhealthy, and the ladies prove, by the extent of their breakfast, that they quite subscribe to this opinion. The “whole orphan,” also, is educated in the same doctrine, but she is allowed to poison herself every morning with coffee—so long as she does not exceed her two ounces a week.

“I don’t know how it is, mamma, but that ringing the bell last night does worry me,” said Frederica, by way of morning reflection; and the other girls reflected also, and talked it over, and objected, or supported each other, as if there were really an interesting question at stake,—till papa’s arrival restored silence. He cast one glance over the paper, which no one was allowed to inspect before him, for fear the news might evaporate, and then put it into his pocket,—for girls have no business with newspapers, and his wife did not care to see it. During the meal he spoke little—he was oppressed by the prospect of all the important affairs awaiting him; and he ate his bread and butter, and drank his tea, with a solemnity which made it difficult to realise that they were only ordinary bread and tea.

Presently he rose. “Oh! papa! you scarcely give yourself time for breakfast!” said his wife, and he did not dispute the proposition. He kissed her and his daughters on the forehead in silence, put on his hat, and went to his office, thoughtful and abstracted, as if bowed down by the weight of his position. He did not even see people who bowed to him; as for miscellaneous human beings, they were not worth his attention.

Suddenly some one stopped him.

“This is lucky! I was just on my way to your house!” cried this person in a loud voice,—so loud that all the bystanders could hear Van Arlen being addressed like an ordinary human being. “Have you been out to a funeral this morning?”

A well-regulated smile hovered for a moment about the official’s mouth,—“No, brother.”

“You look just like it. How are they all at home?—your youngsters growing up—eh? Nothing particular going on?”

Thus talking, Brother Van Noost Prigson walked along beside Van Arlen, and entered with him—no, actually preceded him—into the door of the building where he exercised his important functions. Preceded him! Van Arlen went down five per cent. in the estimation of his subordinates that day; and when his own messenger, with a low bow, threw open the door of his private office, Van Noost Prigson was again the first to tread the magnificent carpet, on which inferior officials scarcely dared to set foot when expressly summoned by their chief.

“Not much to do—eh?”

“On the contrary, I am very busy to-day.”

“Well, well—reading and signing documents, and all that sort of thing—I could do that too.”

“I shall have to sign about three hundred and forty separate papers.”

“Well—I’d do that in half-an-hour; but if you really are busy, I won’t keep you. I’ll come and dine with you to-day.”

“Very good—and in that case, I’ll see——”

“Don’t give yourself any trouble. I’ll call in and see Hortense myself. You know you needn’t make any difference in your ways for me, and I daresay you couldn’t very well afford it either.”

Van Arlen looked at his brother-in-law as if to ask, “Do you mean to insult me,” but his expression changed as he met the glance of the cheery but penetrating eyes. “Living is dear at the Hague,” he said.

“The more fool you, then, to stay here—and with seven daughters, too! Just listen, Van Arlen,—I have a plan, but I can’t carry it out without your help.”

“Let me hear it before I promise.”

“My plan is—to make Van Arlen rich.... Where did you get that ridiculous thing?” he suddenly broke off.

“Which?” asked the official—following Prigson’s eye, which was directed to his breast.

“Why—that bit of ribbon. I never heard of your getting it. From Santa Claus, I suppose?”

“I don’t understand you, Prigson; if you mean my Order, I make it a point of honour to wear it, and I don’t like its being made a joke of.”

“A joke, my dear fellow? I have the most fervent respect for all orders of knighthood—especially if they are sent home on St Nicholas’ Eve.... Come in! Beg pardon—I forgot this was _your_ place. Can I stay?”

Van Arlen glanced at the door,—it was only a clerk with documents, and Prigson was suffered to remain while the clerk waited and the official signed.

“This is the sort of thing that goes on all day long.”

“Well—it seems to me you earn your money pretty easily. But say, Van ... I suppose no one can hear us talking here?”

“No one.”

“Well,—it doesn’t matter to me, but I shouldn’t like it on your account,—I want some money.”

Van Arlen drew the palm of his hand across his forehead, and stared at his brother-in-law without answering.

“I’m so fearfully in debt that I don’t want to give the alarm. I should be much obliged if you could let me have those thousand florins I lent you. In a month or two you can have them again, if you want; but I’ve got to live till then, and I have nothing left.”

“It comes at a very inconvenient time, Prigson.”

“My dear fellow, I would like nothing better than to give you a receipt for the whole sum in full; for you’re a good fellow, and have to struggle so hard, one ought not to make it harder for you. But, just say now, when _would_ it be convenient?”

Van Arlen thought for some minutes.

“At the beginning of next year,” he said slowly.

“I wish I could wait so long. I wish I could; but I have an expensive undertaking on hand, which will perhaps by next year put me in a position to accommodate you. But, for the moment, I _must_ have money; and I dare not try to raise it myself for fear of ruining my credit, which I can’t do without just now.”

“Come in!” said Van Arlen, in answer to a knock at the door.

“His Excellency would like to speak to you,” said the clerk.

“So those fellows let themselves be called Excellency, do they? I thought that was bad form now-a-days,” said Prigson, loud enough to be heard by the clerk. But Van Arlen did not reply, he was too thankful for the chance of escape from his brother-in-law.

“I suppose you’ll be gone some time? An Excellency like that has plenty of time for talking; _he_ doesn’t work himself to death,” said Prigson.

“It may be a couple of hours before I can get away.”

“In that case I’ll say good-bye. By-the-by, is there any place where I can see the papers? Are you a member of the Besogne Club?”

“At the White Club you’ll find all the daily papers.”

“And will one of your cards be enough to admit me?”

“I haven’t a card here, but——” Van Arlen looked round, and his eye fell on the card of one of his subordinates. “This will do just as well.”

“_Merci!_” said Prigson, with a just perceptible smile, and left him.

When Van Arlen returned from the Minister’s private room, he sent to ask the functionary whose card he had given to Prigson to come to him, and, while waiting, wrote a note to his wife, informing her of that gentleman’s arrival.

Before the note had reached its destination, however, the person in question had already appeared on the scene. He had been shown into the _salon_, where, after sending up his name, he paced up and down for about half-an-hour, vainly seeking for diversion in the four framed engravings representing the divisions of the day, typified by English ladies in the large bonnets and short waists of a fashion forty years old. The alabaster clock, with gilt ornaments, was not going—it had not gone for twenty years,—and the vases were as clumsy in form as monstrous in colouring.

“Everything dates from the year twenty,” muttered Prigson, after a hasty glance at one article and another, “and these things never break! The whole house and furniture is of the year twenty—the girls too. Is none of them going to appear? Hortense surely doesn’t require to make such a toilette.”

He pulled the bell. It had given no sound for the last ten years;—but, as it happened, the maid was just passing the door.

“Look here, my girl—you seem smart enough—just run upstairs and tell your mistress I have only ten minutes to spare, and I have to go out of town again directly.”

“Thank Heaven!” thought Mevrouw, when the maid came up with the message, “then he won’t stay to dinner!” and in another moment she was downstairs, endeavouring, by extra cordiality, to remove the impression which the long waiting must have produced on Prigson.

“I’m sorry, brother, you can’t stay to dine with us in a quiet way,” she said after a time.

“If you really make a point of it, Hortense, I can alter my plans to suit,” answered Prigson; “but you must not let me put you out in any way.”

“Oh! not in the least; certainly not. You are always welcome, and our table is large enough. And what are you doing just now?”

“At this moment I am living on my means, for the last enterprise came to nothing. But now I really have my eye on something good. You must try and persuade Van Arlen to take it up; it is certain to make him rich——”

He was interrupted by “Good-morning, uncle!” in three different voices; and the three eldest Van Arlens proceeded to welcome Prigson, who, in entire disregard of the tone of the house, embraced them one after the other.

“Always the same,” said their mother, smiling, and shaking her finger at him, and the three girls blushed and sat down. Then appeared the two next, to be welcomed in the same way; and presently the two youngest turned up, to be likewise honoured by their uncle. All seven were as neat as if they had come out of bandboxes, and each had some fancy-work in her hand.

When the subordinate official whose card Van Arlen had given to Prigson appeared in the former’s room as desired, he was received with—

“Oh, Mijnheer Talm, I have just taken the liberty of using your name.”

“You do me a great honour, sir.”

“One of my relations, Herr Van Noost Prigson, from London, wished to be introduced to the White Club, and you know I can’t go there!”

Mijnheer Van Arlen meant that his position was too important to allow of his doing so. The official bowed—he quite understood that.

“I happened to have your card lying here, and I thought you would be willing to do me that service.”

“Certainly, very much flattered. Can I be of any further service to your relative? Take him about anywhere? But I don’t speak English.”

“Oh, he speaks Dutch quite fluently,” replied Van Arlen; “if one did not know it already, one would never guess that he came from London. So it might be as well not to mention it.”

“Very good, sir.”

Mijnheer Talm was about to withdraw, with a low bow.

“By-the-by, Mijnheer Talm, is Department Y in order?”

“I thought there was no hurry about it.”

“The Minister has been asking me about it to-day, so I should be glad to have it as soon as possible.”

“I can promise to have it ready to-morrow.”

There was work enough in Department Y to occupy Talm all day and all the evening, perhaps half the night as well; his meeting Uncle Prigson was scarcely possible under the circumstances.

In any case, there was not much chance of this happening; for when Prigson had left the Van Arlens’ house, with a promise to return at dinner-time, he went straight to the White Club, and got himself introduced by a Secretary of Legation; and when Leida went to the confectioner’s to double the stock of dessert-ginger, she saw Uncle Van Noost Prigson sitting at the club window! Her heart beat high with so much grandeur.

And Talm’s conversation for the next six weeks consisted principally of the English millionaire whom he had introduced at the White Club at his chief’s request. He thought it would do him no harm at the next chance of promotion.

We left Van Arlen alone in his private room at the Government office. There are moments in life when one prefers not to be alone, yet has not the courage to break away from solitude; moments when a seemingly impossible resolution must be taken, when one would be thankful if—instead of thinking and acting for one’s self—one could blindly follow the dictates of another. All the weight of his important position had never oppressed Van Arlen so much as the idea suggested to him by his short interview with Prigson.

Imagine a man who, without knowing a note of music, is handed the score of a symphony and told to read it. That was about his state of mind with regard to the question Van Noost Prigson had asked him. He had not a thousand guilders in the world—not even a hundred.

He walked up and down his room, staring at one thing and another, but unable to forget that thousand guilders, and the smallness of his salary. If he had a thousand—no, not one, but ten, twenty, a hundred thousand—would he not be a happy man? Then he would really live, as he now only had the appearance of doing;—distinguished society, pretty dresses for his wife and daughters, all pleasant things vainly desired, would be his! Imagination has peculiar force in such cases, and Van Arlen’s painted this ideal life for him with rough but forcible touches, till he was once more recalled to reality and the starting-point of his reverie—the thousand guilders!